Secret Weapon
by BonGarland
Summary: Taking place between the end of season three and the beginning of season four, and is AU. Jordan was made an officer of Haven PD at Dwight's request, and then a case falls into their lap that no one else can handle. Will they be able to channel the success of their predecessors, or will a criminal plague the East Coast unchecked?
1. Chapter 1

**Hey guys! Been totally fritzing mentally, and I think I'm cutting myself off on my latest fic for lack of inspiration...Anyways, been into Haven since the first episode and I've finally got a cohesive-ish prompt for myself. Dwight and Jordan just seem like a swell partnership, not necessarily romantically but I feel something there, so. I need to wrap this up quickly, as school starts this week, but it keeps extending itself as I write...enjoy.**

* * *

Jeffrey Forrester was enjoying the easiest getaway of any daytime robber in the history of the state of Maine. The SUV he'd commandeered from a bewildered old lady outside that jewelry store had a full tank of gas, he knew these streets really well, and the police were having a difficult time in following him, on account of their vehicles suddenly malfunctioning.

It wasn't that Jeffrey was a spectacularly skilled criminal, or had any intricate knowledge of police regulations that would enable him to escape more efficiently; he just couldn't be stopped, and ironically enough, it was a crime that had begun his stroke of fortune, as he had begun to view it, rather than a curse.

Pressing down harder on the gas pedal, though no pursuit vehicles had appeared in the rearview mirror yet, Jeff grinned, noting a mileage sign on the side of the highway, indicating a town named Haven, some two hundred miles away. The birthplace of him and his ability. Maybe now there were some worthy pickings in his old alma mater.

* * *

When Jeff was a young boy of eight years old, his mother had been murdered by his stepfather, Joe. Right in front of him, brutally. No gun nor knife had ended her life fairly painlessly, or even quickly. No, his stepfather had taken a golf club to her, first her limbs, then her torso, and finally her skull. Her agonizing screams and moans deafened Jeff, who had been thrown into a corner and told to sit still and watch what happened when people pissed Joe off. The boy sat frozen, curled up with his knees to his chest, and could only watch as a widening pool of blood spread towards him across the hardwood floor.

When his stepfather was done, he advanced towards Jeff. "You're gonna join your damn mommy now, boy," he'd snarled, brandishing the club as he grew closer and closer. But when he stood before Jeff and raised the golf club, there was a hissing noise, and steam rose from the club. Joe dropped it with an outraged howl, and raised his hands, which smelled of charred flesh and looked like they'd been laid across a barbecue grill.

"What'd you do to me, boy?!" The older man screamed, grabbing the child by the collar of his shirt and flinging him across the room; Jeff skittered across the floor that blood had pooled upon, the crimson substance coating him and his clothing. He let out a frantic squeal as Joe left the room, returning shortly with a pistol he'd grabbed from a closet. Cocking it with difficulty and grunting in pain, he raised the weapon and aimed it at Jeff. Just as he pulled the trigger, the weapon exploded, or so it appeared to Jeff. There was a shattering noise accompanied by a small burst of flame, and his stepfather dropped to the ground, a gnarled scrap of the gun's muzzle now embedded in his throat.

The house fell completely silent, the quiet only disturbed by young Jeff's choking sobs. Fifteen minutes later, Chief Garland Wuornos and his officers entered the house, having been called by the neighbors, to find the gruesome scene before them. Wuornos awkwardly attempted to comfort the boy as he wiped his face with a towel from the kitchen and wrapped him in a blanket, before driving him to the station, but Jeff seemed justifiably incapable of speech for the moment.

* * *

His little gift had been very helpful in dealing with the bullies at his new school, after he had been placed into foster care; he had quickly realized that anything he perceived as a weapon to be used against him would malfunction and even harm the user, whatever the means, and it was a powerful tool even his young self knew he could cultivate. It often helped him in various nefarious deeds, as he could harm and manipulate others, and they were otherwise disabled, unless he was close enough for physical combat.

Young Jeff sunk deeper and deeper into immorality, until the time came when the gift left him abruptly and without explanation, much as it had arrived. He was forced to fend for himself, and pay the consequences for what he had already done, which included a few stints in juvie.

Once he was out, he got along dealing drugs in secret, running weapons across the Canadian border, and other small jobs. And then one day, a gun was pulled on him during a job gone bad, and it had exploded, incapacitating the entire crew he'd been dealing with. He'd left the carnage behind, smiling, because he knew It was back.

And here he was, robbing the East Coast up and down and getting completely away with it. To him, everything from service revolvers to police cars was a weapon, and therein lay his power. There was a warrant out for him, he knew, but it was nothing he couldn't handle.

He soon passed another marker sign, showing Haven another fifty miles closer, and he sighed contentedly, admiring the fall foliage he passed. Idly, he wondered if a drive-in would accept a diamond necklace as payment for a milkshake order to go.

* * *

Dwight was having a halfway decent day, as Haven standards went. The only trouble today, and he used the word very sparingly these days, had been a delivery van parked with its back end jutting into main street for twenty minutes, and that had been quickly remedied.

Now he sat in the Haven PD Chief's chair, in the Haven PD Chief's office, and wondered how the hell he got here. Leaning back in the chair and steepling his fingers behind his head, he stared blankly at the ceiling. It had been three months since the barn had disappeared, along with with Audrey and Duke, and Nathan shortly thereafter, to places unknown. He definitely missed the guy, as a day later he'd been literally thrust into his old chair, by Dave and Vince, and ordered to head the recovery and cleanup team that would deal with the fallout of the meteor storm.

It had been a rough several months, with outbreaks of new and old troubles alike disturbing the peace every week, but they'd made it, Dwight thought he could now say. No one knew if the barn cycle was permanently disrupted, or what would happen, but the situation was under control for now, until they knew more.

A knock on his door jarred Dwight from his thoughts, and he swung back forward, planting his booted feet squarely on the carpet and gesturing for Stan to enter.

"Wanted warrant for you to see, chief," the man explained, handing a flyer across the desk to Dwight's weary grasp, who eyed the black-and-white sketch with disinterest. "Why do they bother? Who's going to come here, especially after what happened to the last wanted fugitive who arrived here…"

He trailed off as a flicker of sorrow crossed Stan's usually chipper expression, his own memory serving up the fact that Audrey's first case had coincided with that event. Sighing, he waved the flyer. "Got copies posted around the department?" At Stan's nod, Dwight waved him out, analyzing the flyer more thoroughly. The man in question, a Jeff Forrester, was actually _from_ Haven. That implied…Oh, no.

As Dwight skimmed further, he could feel the need for several more cups of coffee coming on.

* * *

Jordan McKee was also having a great day. She'd already given out four parking tickets, the distribution of which gave her great satisfaction, and she almost wished Duke Crocker were still around, so she could give out a few dozen more to finish her afternoon with.

The most recent recruit of the Haven Police Department, at the desperate request of the chief who was nearly as new as herself, sashayed back to her patrol bike, which she'd insisted upon over a sedan, and swung onto it. She scribbled on a notepad before shoving it in the pocket of her leather jacket and revving the engine, darting into midday traffic with hardly a glance to see if it was safe.

Navigating the streets lined with cookie-cutter houses and picket fences, Jordan picked up speed as she approached a steep hill, eyes nearly closing in joy as she descended it at a speed far above the limit. Her black locks, free from a helmet under self-proclaimed rules, whipped around her face as she hit level road again, resignedly slowly her speed as she neared the police station. Everyone had a quote of office time and paperwork they had to put in, and that did not exclude her, though she bent as many rules as she could. She needed to put these tickets in the system, anyways.

Pulling her jacket off as she strode casually into the station, Jordan adjusted the new opera gloves she now wore, glad of the additional length she'd adopted. Actual sleeves were just…cumbersome, sometimes.

Flinging the shedded leather garment over the back of the chair at her desk – the one that had belonged to Parker – she flopped down herself, opening the notepad she'd pulled from the jacket's pocket and beginning to sort through the various ticket stubs.

Glancing over, she noticed Dwight's desk was unoccupied, which was thankfully occurring less and less, as the Troubles' momentum had slowed somewhat at last. Returning her attention to the papers in front of her, Jordan pulled her keyboard closer and started typing in license plate numbers, with much less enthusiasm than she had handed out the violation notices.

* * *

The smell of coffee preceded Dwight, who entered his office with a nod to Jordan, as she raised her eyes from the screen to regard him with amusement as he gingerly cradled a nearly-overflowing mug of the strong brew, trying not to spill it as he made his way to his desk. Just as he set the mug down, their shared office door banged open, startling Dwight into spilling hot coffee on each hand, and his desk. With a muttered curse, he fumbled around for something to soak it up with, catching the box of tissue Jordan tossed him gratefully.

Finally, he turned to address their visitors, none other than Vince and Dave, who were both looking disgruntled and holding hefty boxes. Dave spoke first, shifting the load in his arms. "Any place in particular you'd _like_ these? I'm a little old to be weightlifting, Dwight…"

"Floor's fine, Dave," Dwight offered, gesturing distractedly as he grabbed a loose flyer from his desk and moved over to Jordan. "Tickets'll have to wait, McKee, we've got a big fish headed our way, and hooks can't land him." He shoved the paper in her face, and as she grabbed it and began to read, he headed back around his desk to poke at his coffee mug cautiously, trying to gauge if it was safe enough to sip yet.

The two Teagues brothers promptly dropped their boxes, eliciting a massive dust cloud that rose from the floor, prompting a coughing fit from both. Jordan glanced at Dwight with one sculpted brow raised in question, flapping the paper at him. "What are we supposed to do about this?"

"He's from Haven, and this last robbery was pretty close, and his trail had led north before that," Dwight began, "And…well, we're probably the only ones equipped to deal with his sort of rapport. Weapons malfunctioning appears to be the manifestation of his trouble, and it's not just guns. Cars, sticks, anything that he perceives as a handled threat to himself will just screw up, become hot to the touch so one can't hold it, weird stuff like that. Anything nonaccidental just kinda can't hurt him, if he sees it coming. Vince and Dave here brought by some back issues of the _Herald _from the last Troubles period, and some outside articles from his recent crimes."

"Still not seeing why this is really our problem," Jordan muttered, eyeing the man on the flyer, who looked scrawny even in the rough sketch, and was barely five and a half feet tall, by the description.

"Well, he's left a wake of exploding guns and purged jewelry store cases, and he can't just skate by because of his Trouble," Dwight began, finally taking a sip of the still-steaming coffee and wincing. "We've just gotta figure out a plan before he gets here. Think of some…unconventional means." He eyed her arms, resting motionless across her computer's keyboard, as he said this, and Jordan quickly pulled them to her chest, crossing them.

"A weapon he won't see coming, so we can arrest him." She voiced the idea without questioning in her tone, and Dwight nodded. "Gentlemen, if you'd like to sort through the _Herald_ issues while McKee and I take the outsider sources, we'll get started on this background stuff."

"Last chief never needed us to do this much gruntwork," Dave muttered, pulling up a spare chair to Jordan's desk splaying newspapers across its surface.

"Hey, I'm used to running around in the background cleaning up too, remember? We've all gotta adjust." Dwight's tone was gently chastising, but he really did miss Parker and Wuornos, at times feeling fairly bothered that he and Jordan were mirroring their partnership, in this very office.

* * *

**Thanks for reading, as always. ~Bon**


	2. Chapter 2

**I feel like Jordan's a really relatable character, she just kinda flows from the keyboard...**

* * *

By the end of the fifth straight hour of research and note-taking, Jordan's gloved fingers were cramped and sore, she was seeing double, and she was surprisingly sympathetic towards this guy, his child self, at least. Having experienced her more-than-fair share of violence, in close quarters and aimed at herself, she felt terrible for the poor boy's psyche. Not only did the incident in his childhood prompt his trouble, it seemed to warp his entire mindset and set him on an unfortunate path from nearly the beginning.

She stretched her arms behind her head, careful not to hit Dwight, who was leaning up against the wall behind her, perusing another newspaper tiredly. "Whaddaya say we call it a day, chief, and actually eat, drink, sleep, you know, normal human activities?" He merely raised a brow, the unspoken concept moving between them, that Haven held anything but normal human activity.

"Right. Well, _I'm_ heading home, and you're not gonna stop me," she warned, pulling off one glove and flapping it in the air in what she hoped was a joking manner. In any case, Dwight made no move to stop her as she put the glove back on, swung her jacket over her shoulders, and leaned over to shut off her computer.

Ambling out the door, her boots clunking across the wooden floor, she stopped and looked back at Dwight, who was yawning and rubbing an eye with a fist as he read. "You should really take a break. Night." With that, she made a beeline for the door, fidgeting with the button-up cuffs on her jacket as she did so.

They had a weird partnership, her and Dwight. Still new, fresh from the factory, really. There weren't many people in Haven brave or bright enough to fill a detective spot, much less deal with and conceal the Troubles, but it didn't make it any less awkward. She was vocal and fiery, lashing out at the slightest imagined offense to herself, fumbling her way through police protocol, and he was a quiet behemoth who'd been doing something close to this job for years and keeping most opinions to himself. They each didn't know when the other was joking, any of the subtle body language hints that were so helpful in interrogations, or even how the other took their coffee.

And yet it worked, the union. Dwight always supported her strategies, backed her up when Dave and Vince showed up to judge their handling of a crime scene, even patted her on the shoulder sometimes, after a long day ending in a job well done. _No one_ touched her, ever, even when she was bundled up in seventeen layers, as was so often needed in the northeastern autumn.

She shrugged off her deep thoughts as she swung a slender denim-clad leg over the worn seat of her police bike, smothering a yawn as she cranked the accelerator and pulled out, headed for the highway and home.

The wages she'd made at the diner had been pretty pitiful, and her condition's cover-up requirements didn't really allow for abundant tips. Still, the Guard helped out its own, and even before she'd been added to the PD payroll, she'd signed a lease for a small cabin along the coastline, about twenty-five minutes from the station. She enjoyed a lengthier drive home, clearing her head of the day's stress and absorbing the greenery of the highway as she made her way along it.

As a habit, she turned on her radio on the drive home, keeping one earbud plugged into it as she drove, so she could keep apprised of any situations she may be needed in. As it happened, when she hit the last turn for home, someone crackled in on the frequency. "Officer down – the fugitive on the wanted posters, sir – we've got him on Highway 3, but he's – running – "

She was swinging around the bike before the static-clouded message was even through.

* * *

Dwight should've known the guy would be in town before nightfall, because, really; the guy had no need to follow speed limits, and who wouldn't think there may be something of value to rob in a small town? There was probably some secret vendetta too. There always was.

And so, when the frantic radio message came in and Laverne patched it through to Dwight's office, he groaned, quickly getting coordinates from the officer, flinging all paperwork aside and grabbing his coat, sidearm, and badge before rushing out.

When he made it to the designated patch of highway, all he found were patrol cars, officers, and no suspect, with one officer down. Permanently, it looked, as his weapon seemed to have…imploded?

"Damn it," Dwight ground out under his breath, exiting his own vehicle and making his way over. Yes, the officer was already gone. He gave quick instructions over the radio to get the medical examiner and the necessary extra helpers out to the spot, and set to asking his officers what happened.

"There was a description of an SUV he reportedly took, and we were doing radar gunning, and this guy completely blew the meter," one started, stammering and swallowing with difficulty, eyes continually straying to his fallen comrade, though this was unfortunately nothing new. "We called George over there directly, because I knew he was just down the road on a break, and took off after the guy. Finally got him pulled over, and he was...confrontational. And insulting. So we had him step out of the vehicle, and George, hotshot that he was, pulled his gun pretty early on, and it just…" He imitated an explosion sound.

"That's what I thought," Dwight murmured aloud, and the two officers facing him looked at each other, before the first shakily continued. "He jumped back in his car and took off, not even fazed, and we tried to follow, and the car wouldn't start, and neither would George's, but they'd been fine a minute before..."

A distant engine, sounding like it was being gunned pretty hard, grew louder as it approached, and as the driver crested the last hill before their location, they all saw it was Jordan. She pulled up literally in the circle of their conversation, a very Jordan move, flinging her ebony mane back from her face. "Forrester?" The two beat cops nodded mutely, as Dwight paced away, past the mess that was now George, and further down the highway, before turning around and pacing back, a hand to his chin.

"So he showed up…going this way, right?" Jordan jerked a thumb at the direction she had just come from, and the two nodded simultaneously again. She was beginning to think they'd lost their ability to speak. "What's two plus two?" "Four," they answered in unison, brows furrowing.

Nodding, annoyed but satisfied they would still be useful, Jordan began to muse aloud herself. "So why didn't I or Dwight pass him? He must've…pulled off at a point before either path we took…"

"The family estate is boarded up, but it's off of Pine Way," Dwight offered, as he took a spot next to her, leaning up against the grill of his SUV. The wind started picking up, and Jordan's hair was making it very difficult to even speak without getting a mouthful of strands, earning a chuckle from Dwight.

"Got a Haven PD cap in the car, if you want." She seemed to actually consider the offer, before nodding. She really didn't like tying her hair up. "If you promise not to tell anyone." He simply nodded, opening the door and tossing the hat at her. She actually darted a glance around the deserted highway, which was growing ever darker in the autumn evening, and jammed her dark locks back before shoving the cap on her head and zipping her jacket up to the neck. "Now, where were we?"

"Heading to Pine Way, I think," Dwight said, before being cut off by blaring sirens and flashing lights approaching. "Alright, ME's here, you two," he said, waving at the two beat cops, "each take a squad car when they're done and get 'em back to the station. Officer McKee and I are following up a lead, radio in if anything else untoward happens, got it?"

The medical examiner's van pulled up, and Jordan scowled in the fading light. It was far too cold and windy, but she'd regret sporting Haven PD merch for half the law enforcement in town to see.

Dwight climbed into his SUV and she, not needing directions, spun her bike around on the gravel roadside and took the lead to Pine Way.

* * *

The old Forrester house, or rather, Shaw, as that was Jeff's stepfather's name and it'd been his property, was boarded up, dilapidated, and officially condemned by city ordinance. All utility lines had been cut, and the property was nearly completely inaccessible, weed growth and fence collapses making it difficult to get to the actual house. The roof had caved in after heavy rains a few years back, and the house resembled a squished insect, posts of wood jutting out at odd intervals, green moss covering much of what remained intact of the walls, broken panes of glass reflecting the evening sky distortedly.

Jordan eyed it all with obvious disgust from the road, glancing from it to the dying evening light to Dwight, arms folded tight across her chest. She was, quite frankly, freezing her ass off at this point, though she'd never admit it, and wishing she was a scarf-wearer. "No light inside, place looks uninhabitable at best…Maybe he went for the Motel 6 on the edge of town…?"

Dwight looked thoughtful from what she could see. "Don't really wanna leave this guy on the streets, but…We don't have much to go on, until something else happens. Gonna radio ahead to Laverne, have someone at the station call around the hotels, lodges, everything, try to see if he's checked in anywhere…No one's gonna approach him but you and I, got it? There are way too many empty posts in the department as is."

She nodded in agreement, and they headed back to their vehicles, she casting one last look at the miserable excuse for a building behind them.

* * *

"What do you mean, you can't take any of it?"

"I'm sorry Sir, but like I said, we're just closing for the evening and I haven't the time to examine these pieces and determine legitimacy," the owner of Haven Gold Buyers explained apologetically, ushering his irate would-be customer towards the door as he pulled out the key to lock his business. "If you come back in the morning, I'll see what I can do."

Jeff Forrester raked his hands through his hair in frustration before storming back to the stolen SUV and debating his next move. It was too dark to do any proper casing of the many fancy little cottages here in Haven, and he just wanted some cash for his stolen goods already. Deciding he'd drive around and a find a motel that would take cash for a night, he pulled into the road, making his way towards the waterfront he remembered.

After a few moments, he spotted flashing lights in his rearview mirror and hurriedly pulled into the nearest parking lot to get off the main road. It would just be annoying to be spotted at this time of night.

When he judged it safe, he made his way to Main Street, picking the first motel that looked like its lobby was still open. Pulling into the lot, he found a corner decorated with a lot of shrubbery that would help conceal his vehicle, at least the license plate, unless someone was really looking, and shut the engine off.

Thinking up a story, he shoved one hand in his pocket, the other grabbing a duffel bag before he made his way inside. An older lady was manning the desk, and she smiled as he approached, splaying his hands across the counter.

"What can I do for you sir?"

"Hi, I was wondering if I could get one room for the night? In town for some business but I left my dang debit card when I left home from Portland, didn't even notice since I used cash all day…Would you take cash, ma'am?"

"Oh, of course, we're not one of those fussy modern sort of places, dear," the lady said, laughing and winking at him, and patting his hand before grabbing a logbook. "Just put in your name here, and we'll get you sorted."

Within ten minutes, he'd been shown to a second-floor room, a perfect vantage point of the town, and as he dropped his duffel bag on the carpet and pulled the curtains back, he rubbed his hands in anticipation. The old lady clearly didn't watch the news, or he wasn't nearly as famous as he hoped. This would be a simple job, he could probably pickpocket the entire town and no one would notice until Christmas.

* * *

**Thanks for reading. ~Bon**


	3. Chapter 3

**Without further ado...**

* * *

It was a drizzly, dreary morning in Haven, as Henry Jones trudged towards the door of his gold-buying shop to open for the day. Business had been abysmally slow this season, since tourism had dwindled and no one needed quick cash. Add to that the fact that Haven Gold Buyers was constantly stealing his customers, with their silly sign-holders dancing on street corners across town. Wearily turning his aged brass key in the lock, he shuffled in the door, the cheerful clanging of the doorbells serving to lighten his mood a little bit.

An hour later, he was nursing a second cup of coffee from the small machine in the back room, carefully arranging the pricier pieces he had for sale in his display cases. They had to be put away at night to deter thieves who might look in the window and see an opportunity, and it gave him something to do to pass the sluggish morning hours.

At about midmorning, the doorbells jangled again, and Henry looked up to greet his potential customer. It was a man he'd never seen around town before, although something about him was extremely familiar. Relative of someone he knew? Some famous but socially-reclusive author maybe? The man was dressed nondescriptly enough, in blue jeans and a hooded Carhartt workman's jacket, but something seemed off, something Henry couldn't put his finger on. Still, he summoned a kindly smile and stood from his chair behind the counter. "Something I can help you with, Sir? Are you buying or selling?"

The man was eyeing a gold pocket watch intently. "Selling." Without looking up, he reached into a pocket, removing a fistful of jewelry and plopping it on the counter. "Damn girlfriend ran off with my best bud, and I don't think a ruby choker would look very good on me."

There was much more than a ruby-encrusted choker in the pile, and Henry was wary, but good-naturedly pulled the small heap across the counter towards himself to separate the expensive-looking chains. "Sure, let me get these sorted and I can give you an estimate in about twenty minutes, if that's okay?" The man merely grunted in assent, before abruptly jamming a finger against the glass counter. "That pocket watch…Do you know where it came from?"

"I'm afraid I couldn't tell you off the top of my head, but I believe it has a special engraving on the back that it arrived with…We only charge a small fee to remove that if you'd like…" Henry abandoned the small pile of jewelry to unlock the case, pulling out the pocket watch and offering it to the man to hold. "Yep, J. C. S. Dunno if those initials fit," he chuckled quietly, "but your decision, if you like it!"

But the man's expression had turned dark, brows furrowing as his hand clenched around the ornate trinket. "No, no I don't like it. Just wondered a bit about it, that's all. I'll take a look around." He shoved the watch back at Henry before wandering off along the lengthy counter, crouching down to look at some cufflinks.

"No problem…" Henry was baffled by the man's strong reaction to a simple watch, but no matter. He returned it to the cushion it had lain upon in the display case, before relocking the case and turning his attention back to the jewelry.

Among the ruby choker lay several gold chains, a few finely-crafted bangles, and…a silver necklace with a teardrop-shaped sapphire hanging from it. Wait…

Henry darted a glance at the man perusing his counters. He wasn't looking at Henry, who pulled the sapphire necklace back to his desk with a quick "Be right back!" and woke his computer from sleep mode. Keying a few phrases into a search engine, he quickly had the answer to his question.

This stuff was stolen, there was no cheating girlfriend. The sapphire necklace had been familiar to Henry because of a robbery covered on the news. It had been on display as the key piece in a sapphire collection presented by a well-known boutique down in Portland, Maine, and was touted as one of only five that had been created by the designer. The shop owner was interviewed on the news after the robbery, expressing relief that the first four had quickly sold, and only the fifth had been able to be taken during the crime, the perpetrator of which had done nothing to conceal himself.

_That's _where this guy's from, Henry realized. His mug shot had been shown on the news multiple times during the airing of last night's news that had broken in on his favorite hunting show. His name was Jeff something or other, a well-known criminal who for some reason or another was proving uncatchable, despite everyone knowing who he was and what he looked like and the areas he usually targeted.

Henry's quaking hand reached for the telephone, getting the receiver to his ear before his customer spoke from right beside him. "I wouldn't do that if I were you."

* * *

Henry didn't move, only his eyes darted upwards to see the man, Jeff whoever, had apparently jumped the counter and was now standing right above him, glaring daggers at the phone in Henry's hand.

A tinny voice was repeating itself in Henry's ear. "This is 9-1-1, what is your emergency? Hello?"

Henry never voiced what his emergency was, for the connection shorted out as a strong electric shock raced through the receiver and right into his skull.

A gurgling gasp escaped his lips and then nothing else, as he toppled to the floor, dead before he hit it and bringing the entire phone setup with him. The receiver rolled to a stop on the aged carpet a few inches from his slack grasp, the line completely disconnected. His hand and entire arm, as well as the right side of his face and skull, were charred from the intensity of the electric shock. His customer was already gone, the doorbells chiming cheerfully as the door swung shut on the macabre scene.

* * *

The call didn't even come in to the police station until several hours later, as no one even entered the gold shop for several hours. Henry's wife had come in herself when he didn't answer the phone, worried he'd had a heart attack or something similar, and instead found a scene much worse than she could have imagined. Her shrieks brought a shopkeeper from the tackle and bait shop across the way, who called Haven police from his own phone.

Dwight responded promptly, his SUV roaring down the quiet streets of mid-afternoon Haven with lights and sirens blaring. He found Mrs. Jones hoarse from screaming, and still unable to form coherent sentences. From the other shopkeeper's explanation, he gathered the time that elapsed since Mrs. Jones arrived, but time of death would be a mystery until the coroner got here.

As he crouched over the body, trying to ignore the stench of barbecued flesh as he leaned closer to examine the fallen telephone receiver, Jordan arrived. A flurry of movement at the shop doorway caught Dwight's gaze, and he straightened up to see Jordan sweeping inside, brushing her hair off her face with a pair of sunglasses she pushed up onto her hairline. "Took your time, McKee."

"Really? I was just taking care of a call out at a front street motel, lady claims several rooms were robbed last night, windows broken, valuables gone, customers pissed off. Says she had only one peculiar guest check in last night, a man who gave some phony – " she glanced down at the body and wrinkled her nose – "-excuse the pun, story about leaving his debit card at home blah blah blah, and could he pay with cash. She just had him sign a register, which of course is gonna have some made-up name on it, but I think this was Forrester. She said he seemed quiet and nice enough, only had one small duffel bag with him and said he was here for business. I've got Stan with a team over there, following up any leads he can get from the motel. What've we got here?"

"Dunno yet. Guy appears…cooked from the inside out, on this one side of his head and arm, and the phone receiver is looking like it shorted out or something. Gotta wait on the coroner to give a time of death, but it looks like he was here alone for a while, shopkeeper from across the way who made the call says that he ran the place by himself while the wife stays at home. Got a guy in the back checking the surveillance system, place like this has got to have some security, hopefully we can see who needed some cash today."

"Think Forrester was cashing in on stolen goods?" Jordan asked, mouth quirking to the side in thought as she scanned the body's position and surroundings.

"Seems likely." Dwight was back to short replies, directing officers to cordon off the entire shop-front and sidewalk, before heading outside to meet the coroner van that had just arrived. Jordan looked over the body one last time, absently fiddling with the fastening on one glove before swinging around and striding quickly out the door with so much as glancing at the distraught widow being gently questioned near the door. She had work to do to catch the culprit.

She passed Dwight talking to the new arrivals, giving them patrol instructions, and mimed holding a phone to her ear at Dwight, mouthing "Call you". Hopefully she'd have something when that call happened. Swinging onto her bike, she double-checked an address on her phone before pulling away from the curb with a roar from the engine.

"Should get some sort of stamp card system going with my supply company," the medical examiner was grumbling, pulling on latex gloves with a glum look in the shop window. "Weeks like this I need more gurneys than the entire city of Portland."

* * *

**Thanks for reading! ~Bon**


	4. Chapter 4

**Time for the climactic showdown, then one last chapter of resolution. Thanks for reading and following, guys!**

* * *

The thrumming of the motor under her control was as soothing as anything could be to Jordan McKee. She had broken many a case wide open after a lengthy drive with only her bike for company; the bike didn't shy away from her touch or regard her with disgust if she brushed against it. It didn't question her intentions or decisions, it simply went where she steered and got her from point A to point B without complaint.

On her way across town to return to the motel to see if any other clues could be picked up at the multiple-robbery scene, she passed the Herald. Vince and Dave were outside, loading up their car for what looked like a foray into the field to get tomorrow's front page story. Both heard her coming, turning in time to give her a grim, perfunctory nod each, before turning back to what they were doing. Jordan scoffed to herself, shaking her head and speeding up.

The two of them didn't like her much, despite Vince being leader of the Guard, and she knew it. She was much less involved in its activities, anyways, since she'd taken this job, and their opinions didn't really bother her. It wasn't _her_ fault she wasn't adorably sarcastic and perky simultaneously. Or blonde, for that matter. She knew who every male in the damn town seemed to miss, and sometimes she felt looked down upon simply because she wasn't Audrey damned Parker.

Jordan shook her black mane out of her eyes briskly, trying to banish more morose thoughts. She was who she was, and she'd be damned if she couldn't give a list of successful cases she and Dwight had solved, a list that could likely give Audrey Parker and Nathan Wuornos' a run for its money, given the short time since Jordan had been recruited.

She descended a hill that ended in a sharp turn rather faster than she should have, struggling slightly to straighten the direction of the vehicle and stay on the road. Stupid. She was letting ghosts get to her again, when all of them were gone and she should be focusing on the present.

* * *

Jordan was more than halfway to the motel when her headpiece crackled, startling her as she rounded another curve. She was way too mopey and jumpy sometimes. "Chief, we've got some sort of situation at the diner out on the highway. Had a call come in, someone mentioned being there and there was a holdup or something, but the call dropped real abruptly. We're heading out there now. You copy?"

Jordan answered instead, cutting across a side street and changing direction completely. "Copy that, this is McKee. I'm on my way, proceed with caution and set up a perimeter. Nothing more than that. Copy? Do not approach. This may be our guy."

It took a moment for the reply to come through. "Copy that, got a cruiser about five minutes away and we're about ten out."

Jordan hoped Dwight had tapped in to the exchange, and would support the calls she was making. "Set up a roadblock as well, deter anyone heading either direction on the highway. This guy can turn any situation deadly in about half a second. Wait until I get there for further instruction. You on the way, Chief?" She added the last part acting on assumption, and was rewarded with Dwight's calm tones responding, tinted by crackling. "Affirmative. M.E has got our victim from this morning en route to the morgue, but I think we know what he's gonna turn up. Meet you at the diner. No guns, everyone. Copy that? No guns."

Jordan replied in agreement, glancing up at the slate-gray sky that was darkening by the minute. Awesome. Her hand clenched tighter on the bike's handle, urging it much faster than was safe, as houses and businesses flashed past, the gaps between structures widening as she approached the edge of town. A light rain had started, the small droplets having greater effect on visibility than they should have, due to her speed. Shit.

The lack of helmet wasn't going to work in her favor today, Jordan realized, between the rain and the possibility that this Forrester guy was going to see her as an imminent threat.

A sharp curve in the road sent her hair flying into her face, causing a momentary panic as she relinquished one hand's grip to swipe the thick black strands out of her vision. "Jesus," she muttered, regaining control and shoving her no-longer needed sunglasses out of her eyes and up her forehead, in a meager attempt to contain her hair. Her kingdom for a rubber hair band, in that moment.

* * *

Six minutes later, she'd broken perhaps just as many traffic laws, had traversed about ten miles of Haven's back roads, and had beaten the rainfall to the diner she used to work at. Hastily pulling into the parking lot of her old stomping grounds, she sent a shower of gravel flying as the bike jerked to the side, stopping beside one of the already-stationed cruisers just as fat raindrops began to fall in earnest. Removing her pointless sunglasses altogether, she hooked them onto the console of her bike absently, watching the building for any signs of movement.

Puddles were soon forming in the uneven and unpaved parking lot, and she cursed her luck, figuring this would be a hostage situation of sorts. She'd be stuck screaming into the building from amidst a downpour, she imagined, and almost wished she'd had the foresight to grab a thermos of hot coffee when she'd last been at the station. Maybe one of the guys had one in a squad car. Cop cars were always stocked with cups of coffee, right?

As she pondered asking the boys if they had any, one popped his head out the window of the squad car next to her. "Haven't seen much activity inside, a curtain was pulled aside for a second and that's been it so far. We still aren't sure what happened to the caller." Jordan thought of the gold shop owner, fried by his own telephone, and suppressed a shudder.

They were interrupted by squealing tires and the crunching of gravel, and Jordan looked beyond the squad car to see Dwight's nondescript SUV hauling into the lot as well. The man himself swung out quickly, clad in his usual Henley covered by a bulletproof vest, his hand resting on the sidearm strapped to his hip as he stood scanning the building. In his other hand, he held a portable megaphone, swinging it lightly. "Anything?"

"Just got here," Jordan supplied, moving to his side and folding her arms across her chest. "How do we approach?"

"Carefully, I guess." Dwight shifted on his feet, bouncing up and down for a moment before seemingly making a decision and striding right towards the diner, raising the megaphone as he did so. "This is Chief Hendrickson, Haven PD. Heard there's some trouble in there. Can I come in?"

Jordan scoffed aloud, her hands leaving their folded position as she flung them up in the air, hissing at Dwight's retreating form. "So much for _carefully_?! You're gonna walk right in?"

He didn't reply, and a moment later, a window was flung open, a flannel shirt-clad arm quickly retreating after the action. "Get outta here. I think you know what happens next. Ima take my load and head on off to the next town for some goodies." The voice was rough, its tone arrogant, the owner seeming unconcerned that he was surrounded.

The rain was falling harder now, droplets drumming loudly on the roof of the diner and making it difficult to see and hear. Dwight approached the porch of the diner, halting and examining each window he could see before raising the megaphone again. "You're perpetrating a crime, and I can't allow that, Mr…Forrester? If you surrender now, it'll go easier on you."

There was a bark of laughter from inside, and Forrester appeared again at the window. He was unshaven, his expression almost gleeful as he surveyed the scene before him, Dwight near the porch, Jordan further back with the beat cops near their vehicles. "How about this. _I'll _go easy on _you_ if you just take off now. I get the cash and a decent slice of small-town huckleberry pie, and you don't end up with shrapnel sticking outta your jugular. Capiche?"

Dwight's response came swiftly. "I'm gonna have no choice but to come in there, Jeff." He set the megaphone down, ascending the patio steps and opening the front door. Almost immediately, he was flung back, onto his back on the wooden porch.

Taking their chance, several customers fled out the now-open door, as well as a single waitress and a man in a chef hat. Hopefully that meant no one else was inside, Jordan thought as she strode forward quickly, ushering the civilians past her and towards the road.

Dwight was already back on his feet, a hand to his lower back but otherwise appearing unharmed. Glancing back, he noted the civilians moved back to safety, and nodded once in satisfaction. At least that had worked. Turning back to the restaurant, he raised his arms. "Jeff, just come on out. You can't just steal and kill and get away with it. Your stepfather didn't, did he?" The end of his question was punctuated by the sound of something breaking inside.

"You know _nothing_, you idiot cop! _Don't talk about him!_"

Dwight's eyebrows rose, and he gave a little half-shrug in Jordan's direction. He was winging it, and she couldn't think of anything to do but see how it worked for him. Pacing closer, she positioned herself beside a row of hedges that separated the front of the diner from the back of the building, out of view of anyone inside. She tapped her fingers on the gun strapped to her hip, lips pursed as she formed contingency plans.

Dwight spoke again. "He paid for what he did to your mother, didn't he, Jeff? You're going to have to pay for what you've done, too. I know horrible things have happened to you, but you don't need to do them yourself. I know it was self-defense with your stepfather, but you're not excused from blame for anything you did afterwards."

Suddenly, Dwight was hurled bodily to the side, hitting the side of the diner with a loud crash. He crumpled to the ground where he lay motionless, and Jordan tried not to overanalyze the crippling wave of panic that shot over her, even as she made a curt movement with her hands to keep the other cops back. She approached Dwight herself, her heart in her throat at the sight of him flung aside like a doll. It was _Dwight._

_Concern for your boss_, a clinical voice in the back of her head side. _That's all._

Banishing anything from her head but the matter at hand, she darted the last few feet to Dwight's side, stopping short as she contemplated her next move.

Making a quick decision, she could only hope he was thoroughly unconscious, as she stripped off one glove, simultaneously crouching to press two fingers against his pulse point. Ascertaining it was beating steadily, she pulled him with no small effort into a sitting position, propped against the railing of the porch. She patted his cheek briefly, reveling slightly at the chance to touch another person for a moment, and tried to ignore the rising heat in her cheeks at the momentary contact. Clearing her throat, she pivoted and rose to face Jeff Forrester, who had come out a back door of the diner and now stood about thirty feet away, brows furrowed.

Jordan took her time removing the second glove after tossing the first to the muddy ground, painstakingly pulling each finger out of their corresponding leather sheath, tossing that gauntlet, as it were, to the ground too. Next came her leather jacket, shucked and flung to the churned-up dirt, leaving her in just a black v-neck tee-shirt as she brushed damp bangs out of her face, a grim resolution to end this overtaking her.

"You'd be guilty of murder of not just another beat cop, but a police chief, if that impact had been a little harder," she began conversationally, her hands opening and closing as she flexed her newly-freed fingers. "Does that even mean anything to you?"

Jeff was hardly listening, looking ready to walk right off the scene already, patting down his pockets as if looking for something. "Nothing I haven't done twenty times over, probably, sweetheart," he drawled, feigning nonchalance as he leaned against a parked car, finally drawing something from his pocket that jangled.

"I don't think you understand," Jordan continued, starting to pace on the muddy ground, ignoring the silent protests of her new two-hundred dollar boots. "This is a special town. Maybe you haven't been here in a while, but we look after our own, and none of us are anyone to mess with. That's my partner you just hurled like a football." She kicked idly at a stone in her path, kohl-lined eyes rising to meet the criminal's gaze.

"And what about it? Tiny thing like you is gonna take me down in some vengeance-fueled fit of rage? Hulk strength your Trouble or somethin'?" Her eyes narrowed at the mention of a Trouble. "Don't think I don't know what I am, and I intend on taking full advantage of it forever. As for stopping me, I don't think so, honey. You're hardly a threat to me."

Jordan perked up a bit at the implications of the last statement, unconsciously glancing behind her to make sure Dwight was far out of the way. Forrester, meanwhile, started to click the fob on the stolen set of keys, sighing in satisfaction when a blue sedan made an affirmative chirp, signaling it had unlocked. The car in question was closer to Jordan than him, and she swiftly stepped into his path as he started to walk towards it.

"You're one sexy roadblock, but a pretty ineffective one." Forrester's arrogance was unbelievable, Jordan thought, but it was about to work to her advantage. "Why don't your pals try to stop me, huh? Scared their little guns might not work?" As he reached her, he grabbed her arm to shove her out of the way.

At that point, several things happened. Forrester began screaming in pain, writhing ineffectually as he tried to free himself from her grasp; Jordan stretched an arm up to latch her other hand onto his windpipe, channeling excruciating pain through the sensitive area, even as she shrieked for the other cops to still stay back.

Somehow managing to stay conscious, Forrester ripped free, the momentum sending Jordan staggering. Grasping at his chance, Forrester lashed out a booted foot, catching Jordan in the side with bruising force that sent her careening into the parked blue car. Her head hit the side, and gasped with pain, trying to stay conscious and standing even as she reeled, her balance askew.

"You _bitch_," Forrester snarled, rubbing at his arm dazedly. "What the hell was that, a taser? Little girl like you needs a big toy to get the job done?"

Summoning enough coordination, Jordan launched herself at the man again, managing to grab his wrist just as Dwight appeared out of nowhere, tackling Forrester, and Jordan with him, to the ground. The criminal's fist flung out, catching Jordan on the jaw, and as everything went black she heard with satisfaction his howl of pain at the direct contact.

* * *

**Thanks again for reading. ~Bon**


	5. Chapter 5

**It was fun to write this, and explore Jordan and Dwight's relationship as I did so! Thanks for following and reviewing so kindly, guys!**

* * *

Jordan awoke in phases. First her hearing came back, then she began stirring, at least until her head bumped against something solid. Then her eyes opened, her vision foggy, and she blinked rapidly to clear it and her thoughts, finally noticing someone had been speaking. Not to her, it sounded like, but...at her, or something.

"-obviously an out-of-towner, thinking you were no threat to him," a deep chuckle followed the observation, and Jordan fully came to, realizing she was strapped in to Dwight's passenger seat, and he was on the road back into town, carefully observing the speed limit. He obviously didn't think her too gravely injured, she thought grumpily, hissing quietly as she cautiously raised a hand to her hand, which she'd thumped against the window, in addition to the hits it had taken several moments before.

She mumbled something semi-coherent about him appearing threatening and why the hell couldn't she as well.

But she'd saved their asses, via Forrester's underestimation, after all.

"Taking you to the hospital to get checked out," he intoned cheerfully, nodding in satisfaction at the sight of her awake and annoyed.

"Not in too much of a hurry, are you?" Jordan winced at the pain that full-on speaking elicited, slowly lowering her head into both hand and bringing her legs up to prop against the dashboard, glad she couldn't see what the mud would have done to her boots. "Uggh, feels like a bull kicked my skull in." She froze for a moment, her head jerking up again despite the instant wave of pain. "Wait. Where's Forrester?"

Dwight was silent for a long moment, to the point that Jordan was wondering if one of their backup had just shot the guy. Then Dwight smirked. "He's been kept out by a horse-strength tranq, after being knocked out by my quarterback-quality tackle, and taken to the hospital for a psych eval. Which he is probably going to fail, not intentionally of course" – here he shot Jordan a wide-eyed look of innocence "- but nonetheless, he's going to be kept on strong antipsychotics for a long time, until he can stop seeing danger around himself and wreaking havoc."

Jordan nodded in satisfaction, knowing that even the esteemed Parker-and-Wuornos team had suffered casualties of perps along the way, and happy that this time, she and Dwight had not. She and Dwight…That was a concept that was growing weirder by the hour.

Oh no. She raised a hand covertly to her cheek, noting with annoyance the heat in it. Must be the head injury. She was crazy to even look at Dwight in that light, whoa. Wanting to shake her head but knowing the agony it would cause, Jordan settled for blowing out a gust of air, ruffling her bangs, and settling back against the seat, knowing it would calm Dwight to sit through the damn hospital examination. Maybe she _did _have some brain damage, after all.

* * *

Thirty-five pointless minutes later, after several motor skill and memory tests, Jordan was more than ready to go home. Or rather, pick up her damn bike and THEN go home. The bike which was probably now ruined by the rain that had played audience to their showdown. Control was something Jordan valued, and she felt all sold out at the moment, glaring at the thought of Dwight, who was probably going to insist on driving her home.

Speak of the devil, and he shall appear; the man in question appeared from another examination room, stumbling slightly and looking a little bleary-eyed.

"High dosage of painkillers," his doctor explained, gesturing with his clipboard at the now-disoriented chief, who was being ushered to a chair by a nurse. Jordan felt a twinge of guilt, that he had been injured the whole time and still managed to save the day and get _her_ to the hospital. "He actually cracked several ribs in that encounter, and sprained a wrist, so we've dosed him up well and are sending him home to sleep. Vince and Dave Teagues are on the way to give you both a ride home."

Jordan groaned, putting her head in her hands as the doctor left. She was on her own painkillers, but still knew she really didn't need the equivalent of a judgy cab driver, no, _two,_ taking her home, either. She felt a weight dip the mattress of her examination bed, and side-eyed Dwight, who had plopped himself down next to her, looking high as a kite as he stared with apparent rapt interest at the lighting fixtures above them. What had they given him, elephant-grade Novocain?

"How're ya feeling?" She ventured, rubbing her temples absently with both hands. The other cops had recovered her gloves and jacket, and she was sporting the leather on her fingers again, trying not to think about the bacteria they probably held right now.

"Absolutely awesome," Dwight murmured, now poking at his own jaw and _giggling_. "Can't feel a thing."

Jordan shot him another sidelong glance, a smirk curling up her lips. "Is that so?" He nodded solemnly, his hands dropping to his lap where he began to twiddle his fingers. She stared at him for a long moment, before leaning in and pressing her lips to his cheek. When he froze, she quickly retreated, but he wasn't seizing in pain or yelling. He was _blushing_, despite not having felt a thing.

Each of them was silent, looking in the opposite direction of the other and alternately clearing their throats. After a moment, Dwight spoke. "So…long as I'm like this…I mean…I'm not averse to more of that…"

Jordan whipped around to stare wide-eyed at him. "What?"

Dwight shrugged, looking momentarily lost, and adorably so, to her. Shrugging off caring about anyone seeing, Jordan pounced, catching Dwight's lips with hers.

Five minutes later, Dave and Vince entered the room, giving identical, simultaneous choked gasps of horror.

"What are you-"

"Does that _hurt-"_

The medicated pair broke apart with their own sighs, looking for all the world like a pair of children pulled away from the playground.

* * *

When they were both secured in the backseat of Vince and Dave's car, each clutching their own prescription packages, Dwight ran a hand down his face groggily, slanting his hand to cover his speech conspiratorially. "What happens on morphine, stays…" He stopped, puzzled as to what should come next, and Jordan just laughed, knowing she'd never live this down and that word would spread like wildfire.

Even if nothing came of it, she knew she had a connection with her partner, and it would prove an asset later if cultivated. Now, she just had to ask how he took his coffee in the mornings.

* * *

**Thanks so much! Onto the next idea! ~Bon**


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